Inhabit
by tala-hiding
Summary: She is inside his head and he is in hers, and they are looking at each other with eyes closed as the universe inside them explodes into a thousand million shining, shining stars. AU Nine/Rose, somewhere before "The Empty Child"/"The Doctor Dances"


**Title**: Inhabit

**Rating**: M

**Pairing**: Nine/Rose

**Timeline**: Somewhere before "The Empty Child/The Doctor Dances"

**Summary**: She is inside his head and he is in hers, and they are looking at each other with eyes closed as the universe inside them explodes into a thousand million shining, shining stars.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own _Doctor Who_ or any related spin-offs, characters, etc. They belong to the BBC. I also do not own Christopher Eccleston. However, if someone has a spare Chris lying around, please let me know. I'm willing to hand over my hypothetical first child for this man.

**Summary**: An exercise in smut, with all the pre-requisite cliches in fanfiction. I just wanted to see if I could do it as well. :) Sorry, I don't have a beta, so all mistakes are mine. All constructive criticisms and comments are welcome. Enjoy reading!

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><p><em>There is a way our bodies<em>  
><em>are not our own, and when he finds her<em>  
><em>there is room at last<em>  
><em>for everyone they love,<em>  
><em>the place he finds,<em>  
><em>she finds, each word of skin<em>  
><em>a decision<strong>.<strong>_

- "In Arrival", Anne Michaels

* * *

><p>Nobody ever told her this, but after traveling in the TARDIS for a few months, Rose Tyler realises that this life is lonely. Not the loneliness the Doctor must be experiencing - that darkness behind his blue eyes that recalled smoke and fire and the death of millions - but the quiet loneliness of a human being hurtling through the vortex, rippling through time and space like a single leaf floating on the currents of a swiftly moving river.<p>

She sits in her room, her legs hanging over the armrest of one of the overstuffed chairs the TARDIS has provided. It is much roomier here than at her mum's - there's a proper bed piled high with pillows and duvets, comfortable shag rugs in a pale shade of pink, coral struts curving high above her head like the twining branches of alien trees. She strokes the wall, listening to the sentient ship hum and pulse beneath her fingertips. The air is warm, scented with citronella, and Rose breathes in a reminder of home.

They are staying in the vortex right now, the Doctor insisting that he needs to make repairs after their last run on the ocean moon of Murrigan, where saltwater had seeped through the wooden police doors (never mind the hordes of Genghis Khan) and short-circuited some of the TARDIS' wires. Rose voiced her concerns, her worry for the ship lacing her voice, but the Doctor simply removed his leather jacket, slung it over the jump seat, and hunkered down below the console platform, his sonic screwdriver a beacon in the shadows.

Rose can feel the TARDIS pulse in her mind now, soft tendrils that encourage her to stop her moping and walk around the ship. She is much more vocal these days - Rose is unsure about whether or not the Doctor is aware that the TARDIS can actually slip inside her head, but she is finding out that talking to the ship, even in the cavernous space of her mind, can be quite comforting. Trailing her fingers against the curved golden walls, Rose slips out of her room and follows the twisting corridors of the TARDIS.

After discovering the extent of the wardrobes inside the ship, the formal dining room that was perhaps the size of Buckingham Palace, the rose gardens (she wonders idly who planted the blooms, and wishes for a moment that her Doctor had thought about it) and the balloon fields, the elegantly-lit ballroom with the mosaic floor and the painted ceiling, and the grand opera stage (where a production of _The Ring of the Niebelung_ is currently being performed by brass wind-up puppets), she finds herself in front of a nondescript wooden door with intricate carving scrolling across the border. She touches the brass knob and feels it give under her hand. With a deep breath, she steps into the room -

- and enters the swimming pool.

The room is large and richly panelled, the tiles beneath her bare feet slippery and cool. The ship ushers her inside, letting her know that she is welcome in the room, that in fact, she might even fancy a dip? Rose brushes one stray lock of yellow hair away from her eyes and stares at the glimmering surface of the water. Although the pool dominates the space, she spies a couple of deck chairs at the corner, with a stack of folded towels on top. There are shelves lining one wall of the room, filled with all sorts of books and scrolls and even an astrolabe. The other walls are painted in the Roman style - visual cues are something she is getting better at, given that she is attending the most effective history class in the whole universe - and she blushes at the scenes depicting the water nymphs bathing nude. The TARDIS gives her a cheeky grin in her mind, and an echo of a giggle; not to worry, she seems to be telling Rose, nobody's going to come in.

And as if to seal the deal, the ceiling splits open to reveal a clear glass dome covering the entire roof. Stars and suns emerge, spanning the entire horizon. Swimming in starlight - Rose gasps at the sight, turning around, her neck tilted back as she stares at the universe above her. Somehow, it magnifies her loneliness even as she is swept away by the majesty of the sight. So small, her fragile flesh and bone, and so alone.

But she hears the lap of the water, warm and sultry, and before she can even regret her decision, Rose strips off her sweats and blue t-shirt, and slips into the pool with a sigh and a smile.

* * *

><p>"There y' are," he says affectionately as he runs a hand across the TARDIS' console. The ship vibrates contently, now that her power sources are running close to normal. The Doctor sighs in relief. While he'd never scare Rose, he knew it was touch and go at one point, making sure that the vortex energy looped around the main grav reactor and through the core engine navigator instead of spilling bright liquid on the floor of the ship. But everything's fixed now and the TARDIS seems to breathe a little easier, her tone deepening as she familiarised herself with the circuitry. For the umpteenth time, the Doctor wishes that he could go home, just for an instant, just to retrieve the parts he know he will need -<p>

He clenches his hands in regret. Gallifrey is gone now, lost in a time lock, and he does not want to return to a place that's no better than a dream.

He stretches out on the jump seat, belatedly realising that he hadn't heard from Rose in a few hours - a few days, really. Oh, she'd putter around here and there while he repaired the TARDIS, and even brought him in a nice bacon sandwich with tomato sauce the other day, apologising for her lack of skill in the kitchen, but now the silence is slightly alarming. Despite the size of the ship, Rose managed to fill the space with her infectious voice - whether she is reading aloud, attempting to learn the language of the sibilant Gr'Antlas or the grunts and howls of the Hunters of the Moon, or telling him a hundred and one stories a mile a minute, or simply singing in that marvellous voice of her - and now he misses her.

He _misses_ her.

Oh, the Doctor knows how it feels to miss someone - he's had a brother once, he'd been a father before, and a grandfather - but somehow, _somehow_ this pales in comparison to how he feels about Rose. He feels his twin hearts thump out a rhythm that has nothing to do with over-exertion and everything to do with emotion. Suddenly, he's gripped with a fear: what if she leaves? What if she decides to leave him alone? His hearts clench. Nine hundred years of loneliness crashes against him, and he gasps. No, she cannot leave him. She just can't.

He spreads out his hands on the console of the TARDIS. In the dim blue light, he looks at the smudged skin, the dirt beneath his fingernails, the shadow of bone and cartilage and veins, the smattering of hair across the back of his hands. These are hands that had known the feel of a gun, the fingers familiar with the weight of a trigger, the grip of a broadsword, the anticipation of pressing a button that can annihilate entire solar systems. He feels ashamed that these are the kind of hands that have touched Rose Tyler's soft palms, that his damaged body was the one that she'd encountered. Yes, he has all of time and space in control, but even a Time Lord could not, would not dare, return to his past selves and bring them to the present.

Some laws were just too sacred.

He stands up from the jump seat, his booted feet clattering on the floor. He rubs a careless hand across his cheek and realises that he's not shaved for the past three days and there is now a raggedy growth on his chin and neck. He wrinkles his nose. This incarnation is certainly more human than his previous bodies - the over-large ears, the hook of a nose, the bright blue glare of his eyes, and now the appearance of a five o'clock shadow over the planes of his face - and he resolved to shower and shave before kipping off to the kitchen for supper.

As he meanders down the curving hallways, he hears a splash and a shout of glee. He raises an inquisitive eyebrow at the TARDIS, who asserts her innocence while ushering her slowly forward to the door. He presses a palm against the smooth wood and pushes. He tries to take a deep breath, his hearts doing somersaults in his chest, as he takes in the scene in front of him.

Rose turns at the sound of the door opening, and emerges from the water, liquid sluicing off her shoulders and painting streaks across the sunlight of her hair. She is in her knickers and bra, the white cotton dripping from her impromptu dip, the fabric almost invisible against her skin. Her nipples pucker beneath the sodden cups of her bra, and he flexes his fingers in an effort to control the sudden need to play with them, tease them under the pads of his fingers, know what she tastes like on his tongue. Her face is pale and free of makeup, making her look much younger than her years. Her hair is piled untidily on her head, burnished strands gracing the edge of her forehead, curling behind her ears, the nape of her neck. He involuntarily takes a step forward, his boots echoing on the tiled floor.

Her brown eyes widen as he emerges from the shadow, and he can feel the tips of his ears burn under her gaze. She's no modest child, his Rose, and he knows that - part of why he decided to invite her on board is her cheeky attitude, her devil-may-care, jeopardy-friendly actions - and he watches her warily as she processes his presence inside the room. Here it comes, he thinks. She'll kick him out, call him a lecher, a perv, a million and one alien names for a man his age looking at a woman her age, and yet... the words never come. He pulls his gaze back to her eyes, and sees them dancing merrily in the starlight. Giving him her patented wide grin, she extends a slender hand out to him in invitation. The room is silent. He watches each drop of water balance at the tip of her fingers, a prism that shatters upon reaching the floor.

* * *

><p>Of course he would be there. He is always there.<p>

Rose could see his silhouette just at the corner of her eye: the unmistakable outline of his leather jacket, the close-cropped soldier's haircut that followed the curve of his head, the hint of a scruff on the planes of his face. He is not one of the "pretty boys" she usually goes for (Jimmy Stone come to mind, and dismissed with a mental wave of her hand); he isn't a boy, in the first place, but a _man_, and this is something she had known ever since he'd taken her hand and told her to run.

She wonders for a moment if there's a problem with her. After all, most girls weren't exactly comfortable with a bloke having more than ten years over them. Here, they were talking entire centuries. All of time and space, yes, and the fact that there was such pain and loss behind his eyes, a shadow at the corner of his infectious smiles. She knows a little about them - he tends to tell her about his past in short, clipped sentences, devoid of any kind of emotion, small bullet shards of his own history. She's read up on the rest - the TARDIS library is nothing if not up-to-date, and she knows enough about the Daleks and the Time War to understand exactly what he had to do - and to forgive him.

He had no choice. She understands that about him. He would never take a life if he could help it.

(Unless it was to save her.)

(She remembers the wild look in his eyes when he approached the Dalek in Van Statten's basement museum, the way he held the cannon so comfortably in his hands. She knew, then, that he was a soldier - that he still had that same instinct to fight for what he cared for the most in him. And her heart broke all over again.)

Now, her heart skitters in her chest, fearful. What if he said no? What if he turned his back on her and decided that she was too fragile, too useless, too human? No almighty Time Lord, her. Just a simple shopgirl who'd seen the stars scattered across the universe.

And yet, as he stepped into the starlight, tall and sad and so undeniably _hers_, she couldn't resist. Looking him in the eye, she raised a hand and extends it towards him, an invitation.

Moments, stretching like ripples in time, swirl between them. The TARDIS pulses gently as she drifts across the vortex. Rose nibbles on her bottom lip. Here it comes, she thinks. He'll leave me.

Loneliness thuds in her veins.

The Doctor looks at her with hooded eyes, the sorrowful blue slowly giving way to something darker, deeper, something unnameable. Carefully, he steps closer to the pool, pausing for a moment to tear off his boots from his feet and shuck his jacket off his shoulders. His movements remind Rose of a panther stalking his prey - all lithe and dark, feline grace. Goosebumps pebble her skin, and she is sure it is not because of the sudden chill.

His eyes never leave her as he reaches down for the hem of his jumper and pulls it off, revealing the most tantalising stretch of skin for Rose to touch. He is slightly tanned, as though he's been running down country lanes without a shirt, a light smattering of hair across his chest. Her eyes focus on the taut dark nipples on his chest, and wonders if he will breathe out her name if she sucks on them like a particularly delicious treat.

"Rose," he says, his voice laced with sin.

She flicks her eyes upwards. "I want you," she breathes. It is the most honest thing she's said in her entire life.

Oh heavens help us, the Doctor thinks to himself. But she is standing merely inches away from him, her elegant wrist raised up towards him. He could smell the scent of her arousal in the air and knows that she is ready - more than ready, in fact - for him, but he is still afraid. I don't deserve you, he wants to tell her. I don't deserve any of this. I am a monster, Rose, he wants to tell her. I am nothing to this universe. Let me make my penance.

But she rises from the water, her steps sure. With damp hands, she reaches out and encircles his neck, pressing her body against him. He pauses, fearful, before his own hands reach for Rose and take her into his embrace, her warmth dispelling the last of the cold of his thoughts. She tugs him down and he turns in wonderment as she opens her lips and kisses him with all the passion and fiery love that her fragile human heart can offer.

Her fingers roam the contours of his body, exploring the rise and fall of his chest, the span of his ribs, the curve of his shoulder. Her lips trace the paths her fingers have traversed, and each touch feels like a benediction. The Doctor throws caution to the wind and allows her to take her fill, his twin hearts beating a quick rhythm. She sucks on a pulse point, the junction where neck meets shoulder, and he hears a low moan, belatedly realising that it is him.

His own hands have been busy, and before he could blink, he'd divested her of her damp bra, his palms curving around the heft and weight of her breasts. She arches against his touch, panting, her brown eyes darkening, the colour of secret forests. He bends down and kisses her, his tongue insistent as he sweeps into her mouth and claims her for his own. She is warm and wet and wanton in his hands, and with a wicked grin that leaves him breathless, Rose leads him back into the water.

The TARDIS has made sure the pool is warm and they both sink, chin-deep, into the water. His legs feel heavy and he attempts to divest himself of his forgotten denims. Rose swims over, her eyes sparkling mischievously as she ducks under the water and uses nimble fingers to undo the zip and fly and pull down his denims and pants in one fell swoop. He gasps as he feels her mouth encircle his cock underwater, the sensation both strange and fantastic. Soon, she surfaces, water dripping from her eyelashes, her hair, glowing in the starlight.

"Rose," he tries again. His voice seems lodged in his throat. Rose swims closer, her legs twining around his waist as she encircles her arms around his neck. For all his centuries, he is trembling like a child in her arms.

"Rose, I'm broken, all right?" he tells her, his voice tripping over the words.

She presses herself closer, flesh to flesh, her forehead against his. "I know," she whispers. "An' I'll try to put you back together, all right Doctor?"

He closes his eyes, feels her breath against his face. "I don't think I can be put back together, y'see."

"Hey." She gives him one of her patented grins, tongue between teeth as though she knows a particularly delicious, particularly naughty secret. "I told you, yeah? 'S better with two, this travellin' around and all. You're stuck with me."

He opens his eyes, and she knows he's trying to control his body, this intimate dance. They could be starfish, coral, intergalactic sea-foam floating in the depths of space. The Doctor treads water, his hands around her waist as she nestles herself against the hardness of his cock, a sodden piece of cotton separating their bodies. "Rose." He laughs, low in his throat. "I'm too old for you."

She throws her head back and lets out a very unladylike guffaw. "That's the silliest thing you've ever said to me, Doctor."

"Alien an' all, me, and you think we're compatible," he tells her as he leans forward and nips her shoulder, his teeth sharp against her softness. She reaches down and runs a finger up the length of him, watching him shudder with pleasure. "Seems like we are," she shoots back.

"I don't want you to regret anything," he tells her, his Northern burr soft as he allows, finally, the walls he erected around him to start crumbling. "I couldn't bear it if you'd leave."

She buries her face into the crook of his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of him. "I won't," she promises fiercely.

"They always leave in the end, Rose. Always."

She shakes her head, tears forming in her eyes. This isn't just about sex, she knows, not just about scratching an itch or too-close quarters or the sheer loneliness of travelling in space. He is solitary, yes, and the depths of his loneliness is something that she knows she can never, ever comprehend. The last of the Time Lords. The last of his kind. The blood of millions on his hands. She cannot even wrap her mind around the sheer immensity of who the Doctor is.

But she can try.

She can try.

And so she presses fierce kisses on his neck, her lips nipping the shell of his too-large ears, scratching against the stubble on his chin, meandering back to his lips where he catches her as she opens her mouth and insists entrance into his. "I'm not," she says between kisses, desperate to have him understand. "I won't. I promise, Doctor, 'til I've got breath in this body, I won't leave ya."

"You stupid ape," he says fondly. His familiar grin breaks out, the grin that reaches his eyes, and he dives into their kiss until she is shuddering and breathless in his arms. "Y'know, I think I'll keep ya, yeah?"

She laughs and presses herself against him, the water lapping around their bodies. He treads water, moving them slowly across the pool. One arm snakes around her waist, supporting her against his chest, while the other hand is busy exploring the marvellous weight of her breast, fingers seeking a nipple and twisting in as she gasps against his kiss. Rose finds herself pressed against the wall of the pool, the tiles slick and smooth against her bare back. She reaches down and nestles the Doctor's erection between her legs to relieve some of the pressure that had been building up. God, she thought. Definitely between a rock and a hard place.

The Doctor chuckles as though he's heard her say something out loud. She turns to look at him quizzically and he taps her forehead with his knuckles. "Telepathic alien, me. An' with this dance we're doing..."

"Wait, so you can hear what I'm thinkin'?"

"Somethin' like that." He shrugs, then returns to his exploration of her neck and shoulders. "Never felt this way before, me, an' that's somethin' to say, considering I've been around for some time now."

She laughs at this. "Y'mean nobody's ever fancied you like this?"

He looks at her, wonderment in his eyes. "Not like this, Rose. Never like this."

"Must be stupid then, the lot of them." She cups his face in her hands, and he leans against her palm. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, Doctor."

He claims her lips once more, and she rocks against him, rubbing her core against his erection. He reaches down and pulls the scrap of underwear, Rose shimmying as he frees her legs from her knickers. Now they are pressed together, body to body, insisting on inhabiting the same space at the same time. She reaches down between his thighs and nudges him towards her opening. "Rose," he gasps, jerking into her hand automatically. "Rose, stop. I want to please you."

"This pleases me," she tells him, breathless. Before he could say anything else, she tilts her hips and he slips easily inside her, all warm crushed velvet and soft human frailty. She gasps as he enters, her arms around his neck as he presses her against the wall. He is cool and smooth, his skin only slightly heated as he grips her hips and moves forward experimentally. "Y' like that?" he asks.

She tries to move, to dictate the pace, but his hands are strong, and he takes control. The water shimmers around them, and overhead, the dance of the nebulae encircles the horizon. She knows he needs to let go - she wants him to learn to let go - but one of his arms is around her waist and his hips are moving against hers and she feels herself falling into all of time and space, unanchored save for his grip on her flesh. She throws her head back, and feels his fingers through her hair, palm cradling the back of her head as she digs her fingernails into his shoulders and matches his rhythm, pound for fucking pound.

The Doctor can feel the barriers in his mind collapsing, the bright light of bonding swirling in his head, unfettered by the careful walls he'd built over the centuries. His control slackens as he finds himself rising, riding on the crest of Rose's imminent release.

"Doctor?" she asks, struggling for coherence as he picks up the pace. This is nothing like making love, or perhaps it is simply another kind of love - the love that sweeps you up, that carries you away like you were an insignificant speck of dust in the horizon.

"Yes, Rose?"

"You're in my head." There is wonder in her voice as her fingers move, out of their own volition, to encompass his temples, her fingers a slight pressure against his skull. He closes his eyes and allows his movements to be dictated by sheer physical need. The hand cradling her head moves downwards, slipping between their legs and searching for her swollen clit. He strokes her once, twice, feeling her tighten around him like the sweetest vise. She is inside his head and he is in hers, and they are looking at each other with eyes closed as the universe inside them explodes into a thousand million shining, shining stars.

_That's beautiful._

_You're beautiful._

He opens his eyes, twin hearts making sure that his body can catch up as he comes down from his orgasm. Rose has buried her face in the crook of his neck, gripping him as though she was afraid that he would leave. He strokes her back gently, pushing away from the wall and slowly treading towards the centre of the pool. "Rose," he whispers. "Did I hurt you?"

She shakes her head, her body shuddering. He waits for a few seconds as she lifts her head and looks at him, truly looks at him, her eyes shining with the reflection of stars, glassy with unshed tears. "Doctor, that was... was that...?"

He shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Rose, I couldn't control myself."

She reaches up from the water and cups his cheek. "You're everything to me, yeah? 'Course it's all right. It's more than all right."

The Doctor gives her a tentative smile. "Really?"

She laughs.

"C'mon then," he says, carrying her in his arms as they move towards the steps of the pool. "We can try this on the bed then. An' maybe before that, we need to take a shower."

"Oh yeah," Rose says, half-teasing, half-aroused. "All that chlorine, must wash it off."

"I'll wash your back if you wash mine?"

"Your wish is my command."

/the end


End file.
